


For What It's Worth

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Carver x Fenris, Carvris - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hawrric, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, hawke x varric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-14 19:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11790102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: Carver isn't Hawke. Fenris isn't quite sure who he is. A little lost, but maybe less when they're together.It rained at Ostagar. Cold drops on already cold skin, bouncing off of metal plate. The cacophony of water striking armor, the sizzle of it against the flickering torches. Ground turned to mud beneath their feet. Wiping it from eyes, trying to keep sight of the shapes in the tree line. Lightning had split the sky, revealed the army that hungered for them. Upon the wind was their foul scent, their screams and their howls, carrying across the battlefield. For Ferelden. He can still taste the battle in his mouth, all iron and fear. It rained at Ostagar.





	1. What Remains

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy!

It rained at Ostagar. Cold drops on already cold skin, bouncing off of metal plate. The cacophony of water striking armor, the sizzle of it against the flickering torches. Ground turned to mud beneath their feet. Wiping it from eyes, trying to keep sight of the shapes in the tree line. Lightning had split the sky, revealed the army that hungered for them. Upon the wind was their foul scent, their screams and their howls, carrying across the battlefield. _For Ferelden_. He can still taste the battle in his mouth, all iron and fear. It rained at Ostagar.

Carver wakes slowly from fitful sleep. The memory never leaves him. It sits on his shoulders, rests in his belly. Not even the weeks spent in the dank hold of the ship rid him of it. It takes only moment before he smells it, before he sees it without it being there. He had blamed the retching on seasickness. He thought Kirkwall might wipe it away. Standing in the Gallows, rubbing his eyes underneath the edges of the sun. Gulls screeching atop the towering statues, the stone and bronze meant to intimidate. To strike fear into the heart of slaves. But only refugees had taken shelter in their shadows.

He rolls to the edge of the bed, dangles his legs off the bed, hopping down to the ground. He had volunteered to take the top bunk in that cramped room. The ceiling was always cool to the touch. All he had to do was lean upwards slightly to press his forehead against it. Seeing it when he wakes was a reminder of where he was. Kirkwall, not Ostagar. Not Lothering. He can hear the voices just outside the door. Her bed is empty, sheets thrown back. She’s gone more than she is here – not that he blames her. Likely on some job Athenril’s given her.

Carver roots through one of the barrels, pulls out a tunic. He can’t imagine how bad they smelled when they first arrived. From the sweat of battle, to the ship, the days spent in the Gallows. Then Gamlen had come, taken them back to his home. He had spent so long with a washcloth and that bucket of water, scouring his skin until it was raw and red. Until every last trace of Ferelden was gone. He thought he might miss it. But he knew whatever he could miss was gone. Lothering had burned and Bethany burned with it.

They had taken nothing with them when they fled, save for their weapons and the clothes on their backs. He still had the sword. He had burned the clothes. There had still been mud on the boots, blood on the pants. A stain he couldn’t get out on the tunic, a stench that wouldn’t fade. It was almost a relief watching them turn to ash. He kept only one thing. A scarf, carefully washed and neatly folded, kept underneath his pillow. Red and blue, a crimson stain on a corner that he couldn’t bear to scrub away.

Leandra pulls her hands away from her face when he opens the door, immediately straightens her hunched back. Gamlen throws his hands in the air, slams the door behind him as he leaves. “Carver,” she says, reaching into one of her pockets, “can you buy us some bread for later?” Pressing a coin into his palm, patting his hand as she smiles. Her eyes are bloodshot. He remembers the crying that was constant on the ship, the silence that came after. Some days were still harder than others. At least she had stopped blaming them. Hawke had borne the brunt of it. For his sake, or for her own guilt.

Sword at his back and those gulls are still screeching. They never stop. The coin burns in his pocket. It wouldn’t be enough, but she doesn’t need to know that. He trudges along the streets of Lowtown, kicks a rock that’s underneath his feet. It goes scrabbling down stairs, and he follows it. Deeper into darker corners, places where the buildings sag and lean. They create alleyways that should never have existed, holes that no one finds unless you’re looking for them. It’s one of these holes where Meeran hides.

Carver is a usual sight in the mercenaries den. He goes to the desk where Meeran has his feet up, picking dirt from underneath his fingertips with a dagger. “Got a job for me?” Meeran doesn’t look up at his question. Spitting bile to the floor, twirling the dagger in his hand. Carver was the one who had sought out the Red Iron and their leader. It was an arrangement Hawke didn’t know about and one he would never tell her. He didn’t need to be worried over.

To enter the city they had been given a choice, framed within a contract. A year of servitude to either the smugglers or the mercenaries. Hawke had chosen Athenril for the both of them, having no taste for killing. It was hardest in the beginning. Athenril didn’t know their skill nor did she have any reason to trust them. They’d beg for jobs, having barely two coppers to scrape between the two of them. They’d gone hungry more than one night.

Carver only had to ask. “I need someone like you,” Meeran had told him. He could be intimidating, that he knew. Tall, much too tall, and far too wide. He was a wall built from the dirt and toil of their farm in Lothering, muscle of swordplay and battle. It didn’t take much to prove himself. People were nothing compared to Darkspawn. It worried him, at first, how little he felt. How grey everything could be. There was just the anger at everything and everyone, burying the regret.

Meeran’s feet find the floor, and he leans over the desk. “Dock worker. Walter. Hasn’t paid his debts,” he says as he pushes himself forward. “Get him to bring us the coin or we send him someone not so pretty looking.” He sneers, all those missing teeth, scars twisting in his skin.

Gulls, gulls and more gulls. It’s an easy job. He finds him after asking only two other people. They give him up almost eagerly. Carver hauls him up by the collar, slams him into the wall. Meeran will have his coin by the end of the week, with interest. An easy job, but one that earns him enough to buy bread, beef, restock their supply of salt. He carries the basket in his arms, keeps his head down as he moves through the crowd. Not that it helps very much. Others bump into him and scurry away without an apology.

He finds her in the Keep, in the barracks, arms crossed and talking to Aveline. He’s calling her Hawke now too, just like all the rest. They used to be the Hawke children. He used to be one half of a whole. The Hawke twins. Now he’s just Carver and she’s Hawke, as though she’s the only one left. They don’t look happy to see him, but then, no one ever does. “Athenril might have a job for us,” she says as he closes the distance between them. It’s all too easy to point them out as siblings. The same stance, the raven-hair. They share bright blue eyes, where Bethany had brown. He’s tall, but she feels taller, a presence that he can’t match. This is why she’s Hawke, and he’s not.

Aveline’s greeting is a nod, her jaw locked tight. “You know I think this is a mistake. You paid your debt, did your year with Athenril. You shouldn’t be taking any more jobs from her,” she tells Hawke. She shrugs in return. He wonders what Aveline might think of him working with Meeran. He had asked, when Aveline joined the guard, if there was a place for him. Too young, too brash. That restless rolling anger that makes the easy jobs feel good, makes him a good fit for Meeran. He knows she told them not to take him.

“You know I don’t have any real choice,” she turns her gaze towards Carver. No, they don’t have any choice because of that staff on her back. The price the Templars demanded was growing higher each and every day. Athenril kept her hidden, kept her pockets full. Now they needed more to buy their way into the Deep Roads. Maybe come back with a fortune, maybe not come back at all. Carver runs a hand through his hair, the basket still held in the other. Aveline sighs, shakes her head.

“Try and stay out of trouble,” she says. Hawke only smiles, pats her on the shoulder. Aveline leans against the wall, some dark knot between her brows, watches them go.

“What’s the job?” He asks.

“What’s in the basket?” She’s already reaching for it, rooting through it as they walk. “Did mom give you money?”

“A little,” he says.

“Where did you get the rest for all of this?” Hawke looks up at him as they walk down the stairs of the Keep. She could be sharp, with her glare. Make him feel like a child again, being naughty under her watch. He shrugs, tells her nothing. They stand out in Hightown. Their patchwork of cloth and armor is a far cry from the colored silks of the nobles who grace the streets. They stare at Carver’s sword, at Hawke’s half-rusted gauntlets. “Not telling me, hmm? Then I’m not telling you what the job is,” she says. He only rolls his eyes, shrugs again.

They fit with Lowtown. Mud on their boots and on their trousers, knocking shoulders with the rest of the rabble. Most of them know her, greet her with a nod. She’s worked with a few of these people, helped far more. All those nights spent with Anders at his clinic, coming home in the morning exhausted of both energy and mana. She’d sleep curled in a ball, still in her armor, only barely covered by the blankets. Then she would wake with the sun, go to find Athenril. The less time spent at home, that hut, the better.

He thinks Leandra might weep when she sees the basket. She has to know that her simple coin was not enough. She doesn’t ask how he’s brought so much home. Hawke stays outside the house, arms crossed. He doesn’t stay very long. Staying would mean being drawn into one of her talks. Stuck at that tiny table, her hand on his, talking fondly of a time they could never go back to. Does Carver remember nailing Bethany’s braid to the bed? Of course he does. How she would scream, little cheeks red with fury. Years later, screaming at him behind the barn, calling him selfish for wanting to fight. He had left for Ostagar the next day.

“Did she say anything?” There’s always that flash of hurt whenever they speak about Leandra. Hawke’s knuckles are white as she clings to herself, hair falling in front of her face as she talks. Rubs a foot against ankle, shifts in her stance. _This is your fault_. Words spat at her during a moment of anger and grief. Words that shouldn’t have been said. They still haven’t forgiven each other. She brushes hair back behind her ear and pretends she’s only asking out of conversation.

“No,” he tells her, “nothing besides wanting us to be home before dawn.” A bite of her bottom lip, a single nod, and off they go. There’s blood on the ceiling of the Hanged Man. Maker only knows what’s underneath his boots. Somehow this is the most popular establishment in Kirkwall. The finest shithole in all of Lowtown. Hawke takes the stairs up to Varric’s room by two, eager in her steps. His back is to the door, hunched over his desk, attacking parchment with quill.

Hawke’s arms wrap around him as she bends over, head knocking against head, laughing to herself as Varric swears. “Oh come on, I was almost done,” he says, “Now I’ve got this - splotch - _thing_.” He gestures helplessly at the parchment. Hawke moves her hands to his shoulders as she stands back upright, before she leans over him to look at it.

“If you squint, it almost looks like a bronto,” she says. She tilts her head back and forth as she examines it. Varric throws down his quill, shuffles the papers together.

“This is going to be the fourth time I re-do this, thanks a lot Hawke,” he says. There’s no real anger in his voice, no annoyance. Never with Hawke.

“You’re very welcome,” she says as she steals an apple from the bowl on his table, half-throws herself into one of the chairs. She crosses her legs as she smirks at him, raises the apple to her lips and takes a bite. She wipes away the small amount of juice that dribbles down her chin with the back of her hand. Varric leans back in his chair, locking his fingers together over his stomach as he looks at her.

“What can I do for you?” He turns his head when he realizes Carver is there. He pulls out a chair for himself, sword resting against the table, and takes a seat. “Junior,” he says, and friendly nods are exchanged.

“How do you feel about coming on a small adventure with us tonight?” She asks, raising her eyebrows and giving him one of her best smiles.

“Will this adventure get me threatened, maimed, or otherwise injured?”

“One can only hope.”

“Then count me in.” They both share laughter, and Hawke leans forward to place a hand on his knee. Carver rolls his eyes and thinks he might throw up.

* * *

Lowtown is a much different place after dark. Only the drunk, the foolish, the thieves and the thugs wander the streets at night. Hawke seems very unconcerned about it, walking with a spring in her step and hands clasped behind her back. Varric has his crossbow on his back, and Carver always feels like laughing when he sees it. The thing is almost as big as the dwarf himself. There’s no laughter during a fight though, as Bianca has always proven herself to be fearsome.

Their contact stands between two carts, pacing, with his gaze firmly fixed on the ground. Another dwarf. “Are you Anso?” Hawke asks as she wanders forward. The dwarf drops whatever was in his hands as he stumbles back, clutching a hand to his breast and letting out a pathetic wail. Behind her, both Varric and Carver snicker.

“Sweet mother of partha! You can’t just run up on someone like that!” Hawke’s eyebrows shoot up, and she looks over her shoulder at them. A single look that tells them she shares their mirth. “Are you… the one Athenril told me about? The one looking for work?”

“Did you think I was going to attack you?” She can’t hide the amusement that lurks in her voice.

“Oh! No, no! Or I hope not, anyhow! My apologies, human. I haven’t been on the surface very long. I keep thinking I’ll fall up into that sky any minute!” Varric instantly gives into the chuckle.

“Bartrand used to be like that. Got jumpy every time he stepped outside,” he says.

“I’d pay to see that,” Carver says. Miserable git. How many times had he and Hawke gone to him begging to join him on the expedition? They were lucky that Varric had provided an answer to getting in. Not that many people wouldn’t be persuaded by a lap full of gold. Getting said lap full of gold was a much more complicated thing.

“But I digress,” Anso says. He doesn’t seem bothered by their talk. “I need some help. Rather badly, in fact. Some product of mine has been… misplaced. The men who were supposed to deliver it decided not to. If you retrieve my property, I could reward you handsomely…?” Carver can smell the illegality already. This reward would no doubt come at the cost of their silence as well. It’s a good thing Aveline didn’t insist on coming with them.

“Just what did these men steal?” Hawke asks, crossing her arms.

“Did I say steal? I don’t know if I would go that far. They seemed like perfectly reasonable smugglers. They smiled and everything! The goods are valuable, however. And illegal.” There it is. Anso knits his hands together, having the decency to look slightly ashamed before continuing. “And my client wants them very, very badly! You know how these Templars can be.” Anso peppers his words with nervous laughter.

“You’re smuggling lyrium to the Templars?” Hawke asks. Caver’s back instantly straightens, and he squares his shoulders. They weren’t doing this job, it doesn’t matter the reward. Anything that brought them into the eye of the Templars was too great a danger. He stares at the staff at Hawke’s back. A red stone and twisting wood, small symbols carved. Not that they meant anything, just little marks of boredom. Carver had put a dog. Bethany left flowers. Hawke’s designs were more scattered, whatever came to mind. “

Of course he is. That’s just bloody great,” Carver says as he reaches forward, puts a hand on her shoulder. “We should go.” Hawke shakes her head, shrugs off his hand and steps out of his reach. Athenril’s influence only went so far, protected from only so much. He had always kept a lookout for shining armor, suspicious eyes. He had shielded his sisters as best he could. Yet here she was, tempting fate by dangling lyrium. She wouldn’t listen to him, of course. Why would she.

Anso looks pale, as though he’s ready to faint at any moment. “My word! I’m not cut out for this. I should have taken that job sweeping stables like Mother insisted.”

“Make it worth my time, and I’ll help you,” she says.

“Oh, I will! Or I’ll try to,” Anso says as he nods so vigorously his head seems like it might pop off. “

Practically a guarantee,” Carver says with a roll of his eyes. This _adventure_ was getting worse and worse with each passing minute.

“The gentlemen conduct their business at night in a little hovel within the alienage. If you have to kill them, then I guess it can’t be avoided. But I’m sure they’ll be reasonable!” Hawke gives Anso a smile that doesn’t touch the rest of her face.

“We’ll be back soon,” she tells him. As soon as they’re out of earshot of Anso, Carver closes the distance between them.

“This is a mistake,” he hisses. She doesn’t even look at them, only walks a little faster, and puts her feet down a little harder.

“Lyrium smugglers are practically bathing in coin. This could put a big dent in what we need,” she says. There’s iron around the edges of her mouth, built into her every word, something that tells him the conversation is over. She won’t even allow the slightest debate. Her decision is supposed to be his decision as well, and she won’t hear any word to the contrary. Carver shakes his head and turns to Varric.

“Nothing to say?” Carver asks, probably a little harsher than he means to.

“Besides it being a little too quiet out tonight? Hawke knows what she’s doing,” he says. Hawke stops at the top of the steps to the alienage. Alienages were nothing short of depressing. How many times had he fixed Merrill’s roof now? Still it leaked. He couldn’t imagine any of the other hovels were in better shape.

“You’re right Varric,” she says, “There’s no one here. There’s always someone about.”

“Something’s wrong about this. I’m telling you we should just leave,” Carver says.

“Leave if you want,” she says as she takes the first step down. He doesn’t leave. He clenches his fists and follows after her. It was the sickness that took him. He was always a strong man, seemingly invulnerable. He had already been teaching Hawke when Bethany came into her magic. The three of them would spend hours together, training in secret. He would watch, sometimes. Leandra might have pitied him. Maybe that’s why she let him keep the sword.

Then the sickness came, and it came swift. Malcolm Hawke had put his hand on Carver’s shoulder. “Look after your sisters,” he had said, “keep them safe.” How could he keep them safe when they wouldn’t listen to him? How could he keep _her_ safe when _she_ wouldn’t listen to him. He forgets, sometimes, that Bethany is dead. Hawke gestures wordlessly to the symbol above the door. A smuggler sign, a place of holding. She slowly opens the door as he draws his sword, as Varric places a bolt, ready to fire.

Only silence as they step inside. Cobwebs in the corner, dust under their feet. Hawke gestures to the other door, moves towards it. Varric grabs her by the tunic, hauls her back. She looks almost offended before he points to the traps on the floor. Tripwire that’s barely visible. Carver holds Bianca while Varric kneels down, disarms them. So far they haven’t made much noise. Maybe a few too many loud footsteps. She looks at them and nods before she kicks open the door. The arrow goes whizzing by her face.

Common thugs, who charge at them. Hawke freezes one with a flick of her hand, and Carver sets himself upon him. The thug shatters like an icicle. A bolt takes another in the chest, and Carver quickly stomps another to the ground, sinks his blade into his chest. A quick fireball and the room is cleared. So few to guard something so precious. “Anso’s goods must be in that chest,” Hawke says as she kneels down to open it. “It’s empty.”

“Waste of bloody time!” Varric grumbles.

“I guess we have no choice but to go back to Anso and tell him,” she says. She sighs as she runs a hand through her hair, other hand on her hip. All three of them took after Malcolm. They share the color of his hair, the shape of his mouth. Only Hawke has his sense of command. Bethany took Leandra’s sweetness. Carver has… All the terrible things that only got worse as he grew older. He didn’t know how to be kind in the way Bethany was. He didn’t know how to charm in the way Hawke could. Just that restlessness which rolled in his bones, boiled in his blood.

It’s not Anso who waits outside the hovel for them. Hawke’s mouth falls into a grim line as she stands before the soldiers who wait. “That’s not the elf,” one says, “who is that?”

“It doesn’t matter!” says another, “we were told to kill whoever enters the house!” Hawke is already in motion, fire crackling over her hands and over her arms, gritting her teeth together. Carver moves to stand in front of her, and with a flick of his sword, sends an arrow in another direction. There are precious few things he thinks himself good at. Fighting is one. His mind goes blank as he steps forward. His palms are calloused where the sword sits, and the hilt feels oh so familiar.

The weight is a comfort, the edge well taken care of. Right, then left, dashing forward to ram into a shield. Knocking the soldier back, taking advantage of the stumbling to sink his sword into the soft parts of his armor. Blood splatters, the soldier falls, Carver moves to the next one. Left first, right, block there and strike now. The soldier barely manages to parry but Carver is moving again, planting a boot in his chest. No armor protects between the neck and the breastplate. The soldier breathes blood as he dies.

All three of them are breathing heavy, sweat prickling his back and his brow. Sheathing his sword, shaking his arms. Working life back into tired muscle, clenching his hands into fists and back out again. Eyes narrowing as he looks around the alienage, trying to see if there are any more. “Those weren’t just soldiers,” Hawke says as she kneels down. “They’re carrying chains, handcuffs. I think these are slavers.”

“What do you think was supposed to be in the chest?” Varric asks.

“Not lyrium. Anso lied, but I’m not sure why,” she says. He knew this was a mistake. Hawke rises to her feet, using her staff as a crutch, leans against it. “Only one way to find out.” It’s still in her hands as they make their way to the mouth of the alienage. There’s someone there to greet them.

“I don’t know who you are, friend, but you’ve made a serious mistake coming here.” Carver has one hand on the hilt of his sword. “Lieutenant! I want everyone in the clearing! Now!” This one is confident, haughty, smug thinking that they’ve met their end. Only one soldier stumbles forward, his own blood and guts drooling behind him. He falls down the stairs while another walks over the body.

“Your men are dead.” The soldier steps back. “And your trap has failed. I suggest running back to your master while you can.” This one steps in front of the soldier, his back to Hawke and the rest. The soldier is looking between all of them, at the blood that’s pooling underneath his feet. An elf. This one is an elf. Carver can do nothing but watch, staring at pointed ears. The soldiers gaze hardens and he pushes himself forward.

“You’re going nowhere, slave!” Hands reaching, grabbing, trying to claim and take. Carver barely registers the elf _glowing_ , before he shoves a hand through his chest. Armor like paper, ribs practically non-existent. A clawed gauntlet exists out the soldiers back, and then back through his chest, the body falling as the elf lets him go, as the glow fades.

“I am not a slave,” he tells the corpse, some raw anger scratching in his throat. He looks over his shoulder, frown still on his face, as though realizing for the first time that others were there. His posture straightens, and when he turns to them, the frown is gone.

“I apologize,” he says, “when I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I had no idea they’d be so… numerous.” The elf begins to pace, walking away from them and the corpses he’s left in his wake, to one of the alienage’s nicer clearings. Under the moonlight, the silver hair of the elf practically shines. A cold breeze makes its way through, and the leaves of the _vhenadahl_ whisper and shake.

“It appears we’re unscathed,” Hawke says, giving Varric and Carver a quick once over. The elf turns to face them. Carver can feel it already. Aveline had stumbled into them. Varric had sought them out. Isabela had her hands in their pockets from the first moment. Merrill had been pretty much adopted. She couldn’t resist Anders, the cats outside his clinic, and the people who needed her help within. Here was another one practically begging to join their merry band of misfits and fuck-ups.

“My name is Fenris. The men were Imperial bounty hunters seeking to recover a magister’s lost property. Namely myself.” with every other word he’s watching a leaf fall, examining the mud on a wall. Only when he refers to himself as property does he look Hawke in the eye. He sounds as though he’s bored with the words. Done with being referred to as a simple thing. “They were trying to lure me into the open. Crude as their methods were, I could not face them alone,” he says. “Thankfully, Anso chose wisely.”

“That seems like a lot of effort to find one slave,” she says. On the inside, Carver cringes.

“It is.” It’s not just the lack of an answer that shows he doesn’t want to talk about it. That cringe is still writhing and wriggling, swirling in his belly. He wants to shout at her, tell her not to pry. But that’s not Hawke.

“Does this have something to do with those markings?” _No_. Arse biscuits, she’s actually pointing at them. He wants to groan, disappear into a puddle.

“Yes. I imagine I must look strange to you.” Carver is ready to clamp a hand over her mouth. Maker’s breath, he looks so… almost like a wounded puppy, looking at the markings visible on his arms. He holds out his hands in front of him, staring at them. Carver watches as his ears twitch, slowly flatten with some thought. His hands fall back to his sides. “I did not receive these markings by choice. Even so, they have served me well.” Carver casts a glance at the corpses behind them. “Without them I would still be a slave,” he says.

“If you couldn’t fight them, why not just run?” Carver’s been running since Ostagar. They couldn’t fight the Darkspawn. They’re still running, from the Templars, but at least they’re running forward. They couldn’t go back to Lothering. There was nothing there for them anymore. They had abandoned it.

“There comes a time when you must stop running, when you turn and face the tiger,” Fenris says, his feet planted and his stance settled, looking Hawke in the eye.

“Well,” Hawke sighs, “then they got what was coming for them. I’m happy I could help.” Finally, something that doesn’t want to make Carver turn and run.

“I have met few in my travels who have sought anything more than personal gain,” he drops his gaze again, looks at the ground.

“You didn’t need to lie to get my help,” she tells him.

“That remains to be seen.” Fenris walks past them without looking at them. The sword on his back is like Bianca and Varric. It’s almost as big as he is. Not that Carver didn’t tower over most people, but elves especially. Fenris was no different. He seemed to straighten his shoulders as he walked past them, walk a little faster. He didn’t trust them. He takes a few steps up the entrance of the alienage before he pauses, and turns.

“My former master accompanied them to the city. I know you have questions, but I must confront him before he flees. I will need your help,” Fenris says as he looks down at them. Carver can’t help but stare at the lines at Fenris’s throat. Curling so delicately down his neck, curving over his chin. Ending at his lips. His eyes are bright and intelligent, a green the likes of which he’s never seen before.

“You have it,” Carver blurts out. Hawke slowly turns around to him, her eyes wide and eyebrows raised, surprised at his outburst. Fenris is looking at him as well, as though seeing him for the first time. He looks almost confused, cocks his head, silvery locks brushing against his forehead. Carver flushes under his intense stare. Hawke shakes her head then turns back to the elf.

“Yes. You have it. Lead the way,” she says. Fenris looks around every corner, head turning this way and that, finding no safety in Kirkwall’s winding streets. Too many alleys, too many nooks and crannies. Almost jumpy. How long had he been running? When had he escaped? How had he escaped? Carver had a million questions running through his head as they followed him. The elf is hunched, a far cry from the straight back when they were talking. Carver recognizes the stance. Fenris is ready to fight, at any given moment.

Lowtown feels more rust, sand and dirt. Hightown is while marble and twisting ivy, carefully built and maintained. Fenris leads them to a mansion in the very corner of Hightown, hidden under overgrown brush, not maintained as well as the others on the block. “Danarius may know we’re here. I wouldn’t put it past him,” Fenris tells them.

“I could stand to know a little more about this Danarius before we go in,” she says as she scans the mansion.

“He is a magister of the Tevinter Imperium.” There’s that anger in his voice again. The restless rolling that Carver knows so well.

“Oh is that all? Nothing to worry about, then,” Varric says with a nervous chuckle. Fenris has his hand pressed against the door, and he speaks at them, without looking back. Only at the mansion, and what he hopes to find within.

“There, he is a wealthy mage with great influence. Here, he is but a man who sweats like any other when death comes for him,” he says. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. Without waiting for any other question, he pushes open the door. The air is still, stale, same dust and web as the alienage hovel. Was this really a place some magister would stay? They were the nobles of Tevinter right? Carver draws his sword at the same time Fenris draws his.

* * *

“It never ends,” he says. Gone. Empty. Nothing but for the traps left especially for them, the corpses that have long turned to rot. Danarius had to have known Fenris was coming, or it was simply a ruse to draw him there. Either way Fenris had left the mansion disappointed, let them loot what they could find. There were a few valuables left behind, but nothing that could match the reward Anso had insinuated. Fenris was waiting for them outside the mansion, leaning against one of the pillars built into the walls.

“I escaped a land of dark magic only to have it hunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul. And now I find myself in the company of yet another mage.” Fenris finally turns to look at them, walks towards Hawke. Stands in front of her, that posture again, so straight and squared. “I saw you casting spells inside. I should have realized sooner what you really were.” He leans forward only slightly, hands at his side, and Carver steps beside her. “Tell me then. What manner of mage are you? What is it you seek?”

“I don’t know,” Hawke says with a hint of amusement, “what do you think I seek?”

“You are skilled, I know that much.” He’s making a study of her. From the scar across her nose, to the freckles on her cheek. He’s boring into the heart of her, trying to decide if he likes what he sees. Carver goes from standing beside her, to standing in front of her. Keep her safe.

“If you have a problem with my sister, you have a problem with me,” Carver says. Fenris blinks in surprise, takes a step back. He shakes his head.

“I imagine I appear ungrateful. If so, I apologize, for nothing could be further from the truth. I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt. Should you find yourself in need of assistance, I would gladly render it,” he says. Hawke is pulling on Carver’s arm, dragging him back and giving him a glare as she once again steps to the head of the pack.

“We could use your help, I’m sure. Thank you Fenris,” she says.

“Should you ever have need of me, I will be here. If Danarius wishes his mansion back, he is free to return and claim it. Beyond that, I am at your disposal,” he says with an almost bow, some stilted nod. Hawke smiles, nods back, begins to walk away. Varric gives a wave, follows after her. Carver almost follows, hesitates, steps back towards Fenris.

“That place is filthy. Are you sure you wouldn’t want to stay somewhere else – clean it out first?” Fenris has his hand on the door handle, looks over his shoulder at Carver. He’s standing awkwardly in the middle of the street, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

“I have nowhere else to go,” he tells him. Carver sighs.

“Then at least let me help you clean it out. See if there’s anything good enough to sleep on.” Fenris draws himself to full height, and his mouth opens, as though ready to refuse, before it closes. He sinks back into a hunched stance, and nods.

“I would appreciate the help,” he says quietly. Carver grins.


	2. Nocturnal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Carver’s big suggestion. He wants to clear out the Amell estate. Gamlen lost it, gambling of course, to some slavers. I thought he might want to regain possession of it – Maker knows having an estate might give us a little bit of status – but no. You know what he said to me? ‘Every slaver deserves to die.’ That’s the only reason, just to kill some slavers. Figured you’d like to help with that,” she says.

It’s too loud. Shoulder brushing against shoulder, barely any room to move as he tries to make his way through the crowd. They’re chanting around the bar, mugs raised and sloppy spilling, laughing and shouting. “Fenris!” Somehow Carver spots him. Stands up from where he’s sitting, towering over the crowd, raises an arm to wave him over. Their usual table is in the very corner of the Hanged Man, somehow quieter, more sheltered than the rest of the establishment. Carver moves over from where he was, pats the spot next to him. “Kept your seat safe,” he says as Fenris sits down.

He likes the corner. The feel of the wall at his back and at his side, Varric sitting in a chair an arm’s length away. Carver at his other side, practically a wall himself. It gives him a chance to sit without notice, shielded so from the rest. Isabela is sitting by the middle of the table, on the bench, giving her access to roam about, to see and talk to everyone. Merrill is always pulled into her sphere, unable to escape Isabela’s roaming touch and bright laughter. Aveline on the other side of Isabela, her head in her hands, groaning as she listens to the conversation.

Varric and Hawke are always seated at the heads of the table, opposite one another. Stealing glances, sharing secret looks, gestures only they understand. It’s less subtle than they think. Anders sits next to Hawke, on the other side of Carver. He’s looking at her like he’s not sure what to make of her, and that too, is more obvious than he means it to be. Not that anyone besides him really notices, or cares. Too caught up in their own conversation, in their drink, in the cards on the table, the coin they’re going to lose.

“You’re a cheat,” Anders says as he points fingers at Isabela, lays his cards face-down on the table. He narrows his eyes as he takes a drink, while she only sits smugly, leans forward. Chin in her hands, eyes sparkling bright, turning her own cards in her hand. Fenris has no doubt that by the end of the night, she’d own everything Anders possesses. Not that she’d ever collect. She practically owns all of them thrice over. She’d never see the coin she won, except from perhaps Hawke.

Hawke plays rarely, cheats just as well. “Someone has to beat her,” she had told Fenris once, before she passed him coin. “Buy some food for yourself, won’t you?” It happened too often, and she’d never take it back. Carver was never quite so evident. It was clear from the first that cleaning the mansion would take more than one night. So, he became a regular visitor, arms full of washcloths and bins, old rags and soap. He’d find a coin on the desk, on the post of his bed. Scattered over the house, meant for him to find. Carver feigns innocence, but he scratches the left side of his nose when he lies.

“Nonsense, darling, I’m just better,” Isabela tells Anders as she pulls back Merrill’s cards to take a look at them. Moving two or three, pointing to another, whispering in her ear and telling her what to play. Along with something else. Merrill giggles and the blush appears in the tip of her ears as Isabela pulls back with a satisfied smile.

“I can’t believe anyone would choose to live here,” Aveline says to Varric. She’s not looking at the warped walls, the bloodstained ceiling or the despicable floor. Rather she’s looking at the crowd – scum of a different sort. No doubt there are faces she’s arrested before, tattoos she recognizes, an eye on every sword and every dagger. Varric only shrugs.

“What can I say? It has charm,” he says.

“You mean it has drunkards who spill gossip like wine and it’s easy place for your informants to blend in,” she says, “don’t think I don’t know about that.” Varric only laughs into his ale, winks over the table at Hawke. She leans back, one arm over the back of her chair, trying to hide the chuckle. Aveline glares at them both. “One day the two of you are going to get into some trouble that I can’t get you out of.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” Carver asks. Fenris looks up at him. He always sits straight, as though he’s afraid to be shorter. Isabela leans, Hawke lounges, Merrill sways and Anders shuffles. Carver stays as still as a rock, his back straight and his shoulders squared. Fenris knows that this is one of the few times he keeps such perfect posture. In any other crowd with any other people, he’d be trying his best not to stand out. Fenris looks down the table at Hawke, back at Carver. Almost the same face, such different people.

“Some jail time would do most of you some good,” she grumbles. Carver laughs as he quickly chugs the rest of his ale. The mug hits the table, adding another to the already numerous circles of condensation. Fenris has his hands in his lap, sitting quietly, watching as Isabela rakes in another victory, as Anders throws down his cards in disgust. They’ve barely known each other long and yet they act like they’re such good friends and it – Fenris leans back when Carver’s face suddenly appears before his.

“Do you like this stuff?” He asks, gesturing at his empty mug.

“I wouldn’t know,” he says, “I’ve never had any before.” He almost wants to laugh at Carver’s complete look of surprise. The smile quirks at the edge of his lips, but he raises his hand, elbow on the table, hides his mouth.

“I wouldn’t have thought anyone could escape this piss. It’s practically Kirkwall’s introduction,” Carver says. “I’ll get some for you.” Fenris barely has time to start protesting before Carver is on his feet, pushing Anders out of the way.

“There’s another side,” Anders says with a frown, as he keeps one hand on his cards, swats Isabela’s hand away from peeking. Carver looks back, empty mug in his hand, and shrugs.

“So there is,” he says before bumping him out of the way with his hip. Anders scowls as he stands, a dark thundercloud standing beside Hawke. She tilts her head back, reaching upwards to tap Carver’s arm as he passes.

“One for me as well please, baby brother,” she says as she raises her leg, knee at her chest, foot on her chair. She gives him a bright grin as he shrugs off her hand, makes his way towards the bar.

“Always grumpy, that one,” she says to the table as Anders throws himself back into the seat.

“Bit of a tit,” he grumbles and Hawke only laughs while Aveline snorts. Fenris tilts his head as his hands fall back into his lap. His gaze drifts away from the table to see Carver’s head far above the rest. Over the crowd, standing at the bar. Talking with ease, shaking his head at something the drunk beside him is saying. Then he chuckles, the amusement spreading across his face. Passing over coin as he carefully carries three mugs. One he plants in front of Hawke, the froth heavy at the top.

“Move,” is all he says to Anders. A single glare before Anders has to stand yet again. Carver slides into the booth, pushing forward one mug. Settling it right in front of Fenris. Fenris slowly reaches up, wraps his hands around the mug, giving Carver an unsure look. Carver chuckles as he sips at his own.

Isabela is deep in her cups, half hanging off of Merrill. The tiny elf doesn’t seem to mind, and she wraps her arms around the pirate to hold her upright. Aveline is rubbing at her eyes, hiding a yawn behind her hand. Anders and Hawke are deep in conversation, talking about the clinic, things they need to restock. He touches her wrist. Aveline puts her hand on Varric’s shoulder as she stands, waves goodnight to the rest of them. Fenris cannot help but notice all these casual touches, the easy words. It comes so naturally to them.

“It’s terrible,” Carver tells him, “but it’ll grow on you.” Fenris’s frown only grows. He peers into the mug, the popping bubbles, and the darker liquid. Carver watches him intently as he raises the mug to his lips.

“Disgusting,” Fenris says as the bitter drink twists on his tongue, souring his face. Carver throws back his head and laughs, wrapping his arms around himself.

“I told you it’s terrible,” he says, unable to shake the grin. Fenris frowns as he sniffs at the drink once again, shudders and pushes it away from him. He leans back in his seat as Carver smirks. Fenris knows how little coin they have. And yet, they insist on wasting it on him. He would need to repay Carver somehow. He had just begun to explore the extensive cellars of the mansion. Perhaps – maybe. He would ask. Only if Carver wanted to.

“Carver,” he says, “if you would like – there’s something I have found. I want to show you.” The tips of his gauntlets tap against his other arm, staring at the table as he waits for a response. If he were looking at Carver, he would see his eyebrows raise, the surprise settling into a smile. Looking softly at him, face hidden by that silver shroud. He knew what the others said behind his back. He knew how difficult he could be sometimes.

Fenris had shown Carver to the door that first night, when they decided it was mostly habitable. At least, for a night of sleep. He had called after him as he stepped into the street. “You’ll come back tomorrow?” Carver’s heart had nearly leapt out of his chest. Not many people wanted a return visit from him. He had nodded. That night, and the next, and the next.

“Sounds interesting,” he says. “Shall we go?”

“You haven’t finished yours,” he says, pointing at the still mostly full mug. Carver only shrugs as he pushes both towards his sister. She takes them with a sparkle in her eye, hugging them close to her – her wall of drink. Anders gives a frustrated grunt as Carver forces him out of his seat for a third time that night. He has his hands shoved in his pockets, waiting patiently for Fenris to catch up, to walk at his side.

* * *

Carver kneels down before the fireplace. It takes a few stubborn matches before the fire finally swells, floods the area with much needed light. Carver sighs as he moves back, takes a seat on the bench nearby. Rubbing the back of his neck with his hand as he looks around. The bed is expertly made, one of Leandra’s hand-stitched blankets resting neatly on top. Everything else in the mansion was far too moldy to be used. The fire makes its ire known when a cold wind sweeps through from the broken roof, something that Fenris insist they don’t fix. He hasn’t asked why.

His leg bounces as he waits, fingers tapping against his knees. He looks over his shoulder as he hears the soft _pat_ of Fenris’s feet against stone. He’s taken off his gauntlets, the breastplate and there’s a bottle in his hand. “Agreggio Pavali,” he says, “alcohol that doesn’t taste terrible.” He passes the bottle to Carver, and the tips of their fingers brush against each other slightly. Carver sets to work reading the label.

“Only the finest, from one of Mintrathous’s best orchards. Fancy,” he says as he passes the bottle back to Fenris. He takes a seat on the bench opposite, the bottle between his knees, working at removing the cork. He throws it into the fire, and it lands with a sizzle and a pop. There’s a smile on his face as he brings it to his lips, downs some of it before holding it out towards Carver. He follows suit, glass touching lips, liquid on his tongue, smooth and rich.

“Not bad,” Carver admits. Back and forth, watching the fire. Eventually it ends up at Fenris’s feet, fingers around the mouth of the bottle as he rolls it against stone. Staring at it, his ears twitching at the sound of it. Eventually he frowns, and he lets the bottle go.

“Danarius used to have me pour it for his guests,” he says.

“Now you’re the one drinking it. Things have changed,” he says, and Fenris chuckles.

“I suppose they have. I would prefer to leave my past behind. It doesn’t seem to want to stay there.”

“If you need to talk about it –”

“I would rather not.” He shakes his head and finally looks away from the bottle. The fire plays on Carver’s face, lighting up those blue eyes of his.

“I _will_ listen.” Carver looks at him intently, fiercely. It’s almost frightening.

“To my whining? How charitable of you,” he says dryly.

“I can’t be the only one complaining all the time,” Carver says. “Be nice to have some company.” That chuckle again, and Fenris is turning his head, looking away and hiding his face. Carver reaches out, puts a hand on his knee. Fenris immediately turns back to him, eyes wide, and skirts down the bench, out of reach, knocking over the bottle of wine in the process. “Sorry, I - sorry.” Carver darts forward, catching the bottle, placing it carefully on the mantle. Curling his hands into fists, stiffly going to sit down, unable to look up.

“No, I - I don’t like to be touched,” Fenris tells him. Both of them staring at the floor, those small drops of spilled wine, letting the silence stretch out and twist, listening to the fire pop, the rustle of owl’s wings on the roof. Fenris slowly shifts back to where he was, the tips of his ears red.

“What was Ferelden like?” It’s an offering, an opening, not an ending or an exit. The relief floods Carver as he stretches out his legs, crosses his arms, tilts his head as he thinks.

“Bit of a dump,” he says, “but I miss the dogs.”

“Don’t you have one of your own?”

“Mr. Barks? Nah, he’s more Hawke’s than mine. Used to shit in my bed,” he tells Fenris nonchalantly. Fenris downright snorts, taken off guard, hunching over as he shakes with laughter. The grin spreads across Carver’s face, moving to a chuckle, soon joining him in laughter. “I swear she used to tell him to do it, but I could never prove it. Have you seen the size of that dog? What comes out of him is comparable.” Carver is spitting out the words between wheezing, and there’s no sound left coming from Fenris, just the silent shake of his shoulders.

“That’s terrible,” Fenris says, finally able to look up, a hand still over his mouth. “So. Dogs. Ferelden’s only redeeming quality?”

“I miss the country. Rolling green hills as far as your eye could see. Not quite the same here,” he says, “but it’s home now.”

“The blight is over, you could go back if you wanted to,” Fenris says.

“Even if I wanted to, it wouldn’t bring Bethany back. My sister. Twin. She died you know, when we were fleeing,” Carver says, picking at the loose threads on his pants, right at the hole forming in the right knee.

“I’m sorry,” Fenris says quietly.

“What about you? Staying in Kirkwall?” Carver shakes his head only slightly, as though shaking away all other thoughts. Letting his hands still, stopping the fidgeting, and looking up at Fenris. He tilts his head under Carver’s gaze, thinks for a moment. His eyes follow the line of the walls, the stone of the mantle. Leandra’s careful needlework, the pillow she had pressed into his arms. They had so little and yet -

“I have not yet decided. For now, it is as good a place as any other,” he decides.

“It almost sounds like you want to stay,” Carver says with a sly smile.

“I could see myself staying - for the right reasons,” he says, a smirk threatened at the upturn of his lips, gaze smug and fierce. Carver’s cheeks flush with sudden heat and the fiddling returns. “I should thank you again. For helping me against the hunters, and making the mansion habitable. Had I known Anso would find me a man so capable, I might have asked him to look sooner.” The heat rushes downwards, swimming in his chest, twisting in his belly and Carver’s mouth is suddenly dry. He gapes for a moment before collecting himself.

“I, uh, yeah. Don’t mention it. You – you’re capable too.” Maker’s breath. He wants to groan, hide himself under the bed. Andraste’s freckled arse cheeks. _You’re capable too_? Carver buries his face in his hands while Fenris chuckles.

“Perhaps you should practice your flattery for your next visit,” he helpfully suggests.

“Please forget I said that.”

“I shall endeavor to try.”

* * *

“Got a job for me?” Meeran has his arms crossed, one foot on the desk, pushing his chair back. Rocking back and forth as he evaluates Carver.

“Redwater Teeth getting a bit aggressive in our territory. Trim their numbers and you’ll be eating fat for a month,” Meeran says with a toothy smile. “Put that sword of yours to work.” Carver is mildly surprised. Meeran has usually reserved him for grunt work, for intimidation. This – this is something he gave to actual members of the Red Iron. This is a chance to fill his coffers with good coin. His sword is ready and Carver nods agreement. Meeran watches him go, close the door. Two members exchange looks, laughter with Meeran. They’re reaching in their pockets as they go to the desk.

“5 he lives,” one says as he puts the gold down.

“10 he dies,” the other says, and gold joins gold. Meeran rolls a coin between his fingers, tosses it up in the air. As the coin wavers somewhere in the middle, Carver is walking towards Hightown. The Redwater Teeth always deal near the Rose, and sure enough, he can see a pack of them lurking by a corner, lit by red lamps. As the coin begins to fall, Carver is walking towards them, a hand on the hilt of the sword. The coin lands, and Carver is dashing towards them and they are drawing their swords.

“Like this dear,” Leandra says, holding up the needles. Looping the yarn, pulling it tight, needle up and through the knot. Fenris is sitting opposite, his movements are more clumsy, slower and deliberate. She moves with practiced ease while a knot all his own is twisting between his brows, ears flattened and jaw clenched in concentration. Hawke is half chuckling every time she looks over her shoulder, a knife in her hands and bending the pepper to her will.

“She doesn’t know how to go slow,” Hawke tells him. “This is why I never learned. I could never keep up.”

“Bethany somehow managed,” Leandra says lightly, the ball of yarn sitting in her lap, slowly untwisting and winding as she goes. She misses the flash of anger that rolls through Hawke’s shoulders, doesn’t notice the sound of the knife hitting the block a little harder, the pepper being chopped a little faster. Fenris does, and his eyes leave the knitting for a moment to watch her. The subtle shake of her head, the sarcastic smile that flits at her lips. Hunching over the countertop, sweeping the finished cuts to the side and reaching for the next.

Leandra reaches out and raps Fenris’s knuckles. “You’ve missed one,” she says, eyebrows raised and gesturing at the now ruined pattern sitting in his hands. A low rumble of frustration, and he lowers the needles to his lap. “Don’t give up so easily.” She’s going back to what she’s doing, humming as she works at her own pattern. His eyes catch Hawke’s and she begins to make a gesture like tying an invisible rope around her neck, tightening it, pulling it upwards. She rolls her eyes into the back of her head and sticks her tongue out of her open mouth. Fenris suppresses the chuckle.

“I shouldn’t keep you,” he says as he places the yarn and the borrowed needles on the table. Leandra looks up, surprised.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I should go.”

“Really now –”

“Mom,” Hawke slices into the middle of her sentence, “let him go home if he wants to.” Leandra bristles, righting herself into a stiff line, giving her daughters back a sour look. She shakes it off, gives Fenris a warm smile.

“Well, you’re welcome back any time. You’ll have your whole house covered in blankets you’ve made yourself before too long,” she tells him.

“Thank you for instructing me,” Fenris says as he’s picking up his gauntlets, tightening the clasps around his wrists.

“It’s no trouble dear. It’s so nice to have someone in the house who actually listens to me,” she says as Hawke rolls her eyes. She’s putting down her knife, walking past Leandra and going to the door. Waiting for Fenris as he says his goodbyes, stepping outside with him. Crossing her arms and swaying on her feet.

“Sorry about her. Should I be apologizing for her? I don’t know if it’s just me. Her every word… sorry Fenris, I shouldn’t keep you,” Hawke sighs, running a hand through her hair. “I actually wanted to ask you something. A favor.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“Carver’s big suggestion. He wants to clear out the Amell estate. Gamlen lost it, gambling of course, to some slavers. I thought he might want to regain possession of it – Maker knows having an estate might give us a little bit of status – but no. You know what he said to me? ‘Every slaver deserves to die.’ That’s the only reason, just to kill some slavers. Figured you’d like to help with that,” she says. The smile ghosts at his lips, a half-chuckle, looking away from Hawke for a moment to quickly glance at Lowtown.

They live in the slums, second to only the alienage, only a step above Darktown. Not that his mansion was perfect – far from it – but he at least had the advantage of Hightown. As refugees they would be looked down upon, and their living arrangements would not help them. The buildings were crumbling, in disrepair, an area where only the brave dare to tread. To take back their estate would mean status, a better home, a safer place to live. And Carver –

Fenris looks back at Hawke, and her eyes aren’t quite the same. They share the blue, but Hawke is the safer places of the ocean. Sunny skies and gentle floating. Carver is the harder waves, the endless expanse and the void that lurks beneath. There’s calm in those dark places, a loneliness that can’t be placed, solitude and quiet. “I would be happy to help,” he says because Carver wants to kill slavers and it isn’t for the sake of himself or an estate. Hawke gives a relieved smile, a gentle sigh.

The sun is almost completely set, the last rays of light filtering through the cramped spaces where Fenris walks. He avoids the main streets, stays towards the quieter alleyways that no one really frequents. Those who do know that Fenris is not easy prey, and so he walks alone. He knows all the twisting and winding paths, where redder brick gives way to marble and grey stone. Crossing into Hightown and the market is quiet, the shopkeepers having gone home long ago.

It had taken such a short time to intimately know the city. Every corner and every crack, familiar faces, recognizable people. It was easy to sort out the new and the strange, to know the unfamiliar and the dangerous. Perhaps it would not be such a bad thing to stay. There was still the itch to run – but he did not have the safety of numbers on the run. Some part of him knows that if Danarius came to the city to reclaim him, he would not be facing his former master alone. To leave Kirkwall would be to know that longing emptiness once again, to always fear what was around the corner and lurking at his back. Fenris shakes his head. Kirkwall was far from _safe_. He must not let himself become soft, let his guard down.

Fenris rounds the corner and stops in his tracks. Cocking his head, looking at the figure on the stairs. Hunched and stiff, arms wrapped around itself, head lowered. He moves cautiously forward, wishing he had his sword with him. Not that he was ever without a weapon, not that he wasn’t one himself. The figure goes to its knees, leaving a bloody trail on the wall as he falls. It’s only as Fenris walks closer does he recognize him, and then he is running, kneeling beside him, throwing an arm over his shoulder and helping Carver to his feet.

“Hello,” Carver says casually, “you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“And you are a sight,” Fenris grumbles. He chuckles under his breath, all his weight leaning on the elf. Together they take stuttered steps, slow and stumbling, Fenris with his arm around his waist, the other holding tight to Carver’s wrist, hauling him along towards his mansion. Not bothering with the lock, simply kicking open the door, helping Carver to take a seat on the table. Steadying him, holding him up as he examines him.

Carver’s cheeks are pale, his forehead beaded with sweat. Hands bloodied, sword missing, looking at Fenris with a dopey smile. His shirt is torn and bloody, a large gash in the middle of him. Fenris is instantly throwing off his gauntlets, digging underneath the bed. He may not know how to knit, but he does know how to stitch. “Take off your shirt,” he says as he places the kit on the table. Carver does as he asks, the wound oozing more blood as he moves. The shirt lands in a wet heap on the floor.

“Why do you have whiskey in there?” Carver asks as Fenris removes the lid.

“This will sting.” Barely any warning before he is pouring it over the gash, and Carver hisses in surprise. His hands squeeze the edge of the table, knuckles white. It’s a clean cut, at least. Clearly a thrust from a sword that Carver did not manage to dodge completely. “Where is your sword?” He asks as he reaches for the needle, thread already hooked through. Stepping closer to him, fingers pressing at his side.

“I think I dropped it somewhere by the Ro- _hnnggss_.” Needle sliding into flesh, pulling closed the gash. Carver’s head drops, lands on Fenris’s shoulder. “Sorry, I know you don’t like –”

“Tell me what happened,” Fenris says, calmly pulling the thread through, piercing him with the needle once again. Neat and with practiced ease, something done quickly and with composure.

“Don’t tell Hawke,” Carver pleads weakly. “I’m taking jobs on the side. We need the coin to buy into the expedition to the Deep Roads. She can’t do it by herself.”

“Why did you drag yourself here and not to Anders?”

“Are you kidding? He would tell my sister what happened in an instant. That’s the last thing I need,” he chuckles lightly. Tying the knot, cutting the thread. Stepping closer as he presses a bandage against him, begins to wind a length of cloth around his waist to hold it in place. Close as he is, he uses touch in replace of sight. The tips of his ears go pointed red as his fingers travel over well-built muscle.

“You need rest,” Fenris tells him, “and food.”

“Later,” Carver mumbles. It’s all he can do to pull the man to bed, push him down as carefully as possible. Carver falls asleep with little trouble, hardly any protesting. One leg hanging off the bed, the other barely making it on. Fenris removes his boots for him, places them side by side. Arranging his legs completely, pulling the blanket over him. Putting a finger just below his nose, feeling him breathe evenly and peacefully. He gently brushes away errant bangs, goes to curl up in a chair nearby.

Carver wakes to the smell of bacon, and something sweeter. There’s a still steaming pile of food on the table beside him, and a shirt that’s been carefully folded. He’s sitting up just as Fenris appears on the stairs. “Eat,” he says, pointing at the food, placing Carver’s sword on the table.

“Did you – did you actually go looking for my sword?”

“Eat,” Fenris repeats, pointing once again at the plate. Carver’s stomach rumbles and he immediately reaches for a bun. “I’ve spoken to Hawke. I explained you stayed the night with me, without mentioning why. She still expects us both in Darktown today to help with clearing the estate.” Carver grunts.

“Forgot about that,” he says in between bites. He’s devouring the food at a breakneck pace, unable to savor the taste, simply wanting more. He finishes, winces as he stands and presses a hand to his side. Fenris’s eyes narrow.

“Perhaps you should stay here. You are not yet recovered,” he says. Carver shakes his head as he reaches for the shirt, pulls it over his head. It’s a bit tight, but clean, and Fenris passes him a sleeveless jacket to go with it. A large leather belt as well, wrapping it around his waist, securing it in place, settling over the wound. “Do not make me regret allowing you to come.”

“I won’t let you down,” Carver grins.

Hawke is waiting for them by the entrance into the cellars, her arms crossed, tapping a finger against her elbow impatiently. Leaning against a wall as Varric yawns, links his hands behind his head. “He’s hiding something,” she blurts out.

“What? Broody?”

“Carver. Fenris is definitely helping him hide whatever it is.” Her eyes narrow as she thinks, biting her bottom lip. “He stayed over at Fenris’s place last night. And then Fenris comes to see me this morning to let me know he’s alright. Tight lipped about why Carver was actually there.”

“Maybe they’re fucking,” Varric shrugs. Hawke’s mouth gapes open, but she quickly collects herself.

“Gross. I don’t want to think about my – my brother’s _sex_ life, thank you very much,” she says.

“Maybe they know that,” Varric tells her. “If it was something serious, I’m sure they’d let you know. I know I call him Junior, but he’s not a kid. And if he is in some sort of trouble then aren’t you at least glad he has the most murderous and dangerous elf we know on his side?” Hawke only grunts, taps her fingers harder. “Well, now’s your chance to ask.” Hawke pushes herself away from the wall as Fenris and Carver make their way towards them.

“Let’s get this done,” Carver says, a simple nod his only greeting. Hawke bites her tongue as Varric gives her a laughing look, follows Carver into the tunnels. The first two are simply guarding the entrance. A bolt from Bianca and a quick strike from Fenris is enough to silence them, their bodies falling to the floor with a slump.

“Let’s find the vault, and grandfather’s will. It might at least make mother feel better,” Hawke mutters to Carver as they step over the bodies. “Who knows, we might even find something to shut Gamlen up.”

“That’d be something,” Carver says. He’s doing his best to ignore the throbbing in his side, trying not to let the hurt show. Hawke is watching him carefully, and puts a single hand on his arm. Surprised, he tries to shake her off, but she stubbornly follows.

“You forget I’m a healer, brother,” she hisses, “I know you’re hurt and you will tell me how and why. You’ll also tell me why Fenris is lying for you now.” All of this is done under her breath, a fierce whisper meant for only his ears. “The moment we’re home.” Her fingers dig into his arms, hard enough to bruise, but he can feel the magic washing through him. It raises the hair at the back of his neck, sets a tingle to his spine. Gooseflesh that ripples through him, a chill, and then she is pulling away. He knows that if he checks, he’d find the wound almost completely healed. Almost. She’s not without some punishment.

He and Fenris lead the charge into the next room. The first takes Carver’s boot to the chest, and Fenris is whirling around him, a silver streak of death. Working side by side as they take them head on, and Carver rushes forward, impales a slaver assassin in the belly – one who had been ready to plunge his blades into Fenris’s back. A breathless nod of gratitude and onto the next. And the next, and the next.

Panting by the stairs to the vault, and Carver is hunched over as he struggles to catch his breath. Fenris is doing much the same, concentrating on evening his breathing. Carver reaches out, puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. It’s a loose and light thing, something that could be easily shaken off, but Fenris doesn’t. He finds he doesn’t mind, same as he didn’t mind Carver’s head on his shoulder. “We make a good team,” Carver tells him.

“We do. You should take me with you on your next ‘job’,” he says. A brilliant grin bursts from Carver, and his hand squeezes ever so tightly. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but the door to the vault is opening, and his hand falls back to his side. Hawke waves papers over her head, Varric at her side, the both of them walking down the stairs.

“I found the will,” she says, “let’s go home.”

* * *

In the morning, Fenris opens his door to find a basket on his doorstep. Inside is a bottle of whiskey, one of wine, bread and cheese, along with some note that has horrible penmanship. Fenris takes the basket inside, examines one of the items at the bottom of the basket. Taking it in his hands, holding it up to look at it. A small carved wolf made from grey wood, two sparkling green gems for eyes. Fenris smiles, places it on his mantle.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I hope that you like, and that you'll continue to read.   
> You can always find me at [my tumblr](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/), and I'm always happy to chat.   
> Cheers!


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